In the Common Room
by Drowning.Octopus
Summary: (Head Boy / Head Girl AU) - Draco, repulsed at having to share his title with Hermione, spends his nights loudly "entertaining" witches in an attempt to get a rise out of her. When she refuses to respond, Draco discovers she isn't quite the girl he'd expected her to be.
1. 1: Confined Spaces

_**Author's note: **Hello, new story! And, true to fashion, I have 0% of it planned out and I have no idea where any of this is going. I don't even know if this will ever turn into something, I am just tentatively dipping back into this whole thing. So! Let's see how this pans out together, shall we?_

_7th year AU_

**_Edit:_**_ I added another section :)_

* * *

He should have known, of course, that it would be her. She, after all, was the most unbearably insufferable know-it-all**—**the most unceasingly annoying ass-kisser—the single most incomparably unholy goody-two-shoes that the school had ever seen. At least _his _position was won for his genuine intellect and leadership skills and not because of some stroke of luck or incompetent last ditch decision of the higher ups. He frowned to himself.

Actually, she was probably pretty qualified for the position, too, I mean, what with defeating the Dark Lord near single-handedly at the age of eleven. And then at twelve. And then...in...every year subsequent to that, but Draco was definitely more qualified. He was _handsome_, for one. The younger children would respect _handsome_.

To be honest, his initial thought upon discovering the identity of his roommate-to-be was to assume she'd slept with the professors in charge of appointing the position, but he hadn't even been able to finish that thought without laughing out loud. Hermione Granger, sleeping with _anyone? _She probably didn't even sleep with a teddy bear for fear of besmirching her precious chastity. He smirked at his own joke, and then immediately glowered. He was utterly upset at the idea of sharing such a small space with one Hermione Granger for an entire year. He'd been hoping for a pretty Slytherin, or even maybe a cute little Ravenclaw. Hell, he'd have preferred Harry Potter himself as Head Girl, witch's robes and all. At least Harry didn't have the shrill little voice of a dying chinchilla. Ever since she'd walked into his train compartment with her face all bright and sunny and the Head Girl badge pinned perfectly to her frumpy lapel, all his elation at being named Head Boy had simply slipped away into nothingness. And so he continued, sitting in his fluffy armchair by the fire, smirking and glowering and smirking and glowering, ruminating angrily and wallowing in self-pity.

He ruminated so angrily and wallowed so thoroughly that he didn't even notice her come in.

"I'm not happy about this either, Malfoy," she reminded him in a patronizing tone. He jumped and turned to face her immediately.

"Did I _ask _for your opinion?" he sneered automatically. She rolled her eyes.

"That'll be enough of _that, _thank you. I'd rather not spend an entire year bickering pettily over every little thing." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Let's have some maturity, shall we?"

Draco grumbled to himself and turned back towards the fire.

"If you don't want to fight with me, then why don't you resign?" he asked sweetly, twisting his face into a saccharine smile. He heard her scoff from the opposite side of the room.

"Give up Head Girl because I don't want to sit next to Malfoy? You _wish _you meant that much to me!" She finished with a little laugh and he found himself swiveled against the back of the chair, on his knees with his elbows resting against the head.

"I wish? The only thing I _wish _is that you weren't here!"

"And I wish the same, Malfoy," she answered without hesitation, "but turns out I am! So, since you're making it _very _clear that we won't be getting along this year, why don't you just ignore me?" Her hand was on her hip and the other on the table as she leant in towards him, eyes half-lidded in the way that mothers address cheeky children. He grit his teeth in annoyance.

"Ignore you for a _year_?!" he repeated, his voice rising.

"Either that or learn to grow up, then," Hermione answered. She flipped her impossibly large hair over one shoulder (an act that barely did a thing because of the sheer volume of the damned mess) and gazed pointedly at him. "A truce is what I'm proposing, Malfoy, seeing as we've got an entire academic season of working, eating, and living together to get through." She breached the forty-foot gap between them for the first time since they'd arrived in the Head Common Room, standing stiffly in front of him and extending a hand. "A truce? Would you agree to that?"

He stared dumbly at her, and then knit his eyebrows together in disbelief. "_No_, I would not agree to that!" he responded incredulously, knocking her hand away from himself. "Are you daft, woman?"

She sighed exasperatedly. "I genuinely don't know why I thought that would have worked," she muttered, more to herself than to the boy opposite her.

"I'D RATHER DIE," he bellowed, ignoring her.

"Alright**—**"

"I'D RATHER_ ACTUALLY _DIE_._"

"Yes, okay, I**—**"

"I'D RATHER HAVE MY SOUL SUCKED OUT BY A DEMENTOR WHILE BEING CHASED BY A HORDE OF HIPPOGRIFFS INTO AN OCEAN FULL OF INFERI WITH MY OWN FATHER HOLDING A TWO-PRONGED**—"**

"_MALFOY_, I get it! Okay!" she bit, pressing the pads of her fingers to her forehead in exasperation. _  
_

He crossed his arms over his chest pointedly. Secretly, he thought the truce was a very good idea indeed. Some kind of forced civility between the two, or a bit less arguing at the very least, could potentially keep him from the utter exhaustion of screaming at her all day and night. It might save his voice for Quidditch practices. It might make the inevitable horror of sharing a living space a bit less horrible in general if he knew she wasn't charming all his things to explode or poisoning his potions with horrible diseases.

But god help him if he ever admitted it.

She was beneath him—that much was true. And she was undoubtedly unworthy of shaking his hand. It wasn't as much her blood status anymore, not to Draco. Rather, it was the idea that she was just _such _a stupid little prissy know-it-all with her nose pointed permanently in the air and her head pointed permanently up her arse. Honestly, she just got to him. She made him angry. She was intelligent, and she was confident despite her less-than-stellar looks _and _her blood status _and _her stupid fucking hair, and above all she treated him like a baby. She thought she was better than him. And it made him angry.

And Merlin knows he lived to make _her _angry.

So a truce was simply out of the question, and that was it.

He pursed his lips decisively.

"So what, then, Malfoy? What's the plan?" she prodded in a businesslike tone, hands on her hips and foot tapping away beside him. She crossed to the front of the armchair, raising both eyebrows as she faced him directly. He sneered and directed his gaze elsewhere, racking his brain.

"I suppose we'll have to do Head duties, won't we?" he asked himself, mumbling quietly. She scoffed.

"Yes, _I suppose," _she rebuked sarcastically.

"...and you'll need the bathroom now and again, I assume."

"I should say so!"

"And I suppose our weekly patrols will more than likely be together," he continued, completely ignoring her.

"More than likely? That's a given, Malfoy," she laughed. He gave her a decided glare before continuing.

"And so that means that ignoring each other _completely _would be somewhat out of the question."

"And you won't have a truce, of course," she interjected, lowering her voice to a barely audible whisper before adding, "prideful swot." He rolled his eyes at her.

"So," he said smartly, standing up so swiftly and with such decision that Hermione took a step back, "all that's left to do is to set the rules!" She stared at him warily but allowed him to continue. He beamed at her, stepping around her in order to address the full room. "First," he began, clapping his hands together. "I shower after every Quidditch practice. If there is no Quidditch practice, I shower every night. It takes me a long while and so I suggest you take mornings." Here he glanced over his shoulder to appraise her disgustedly. "...If you ever _do _shower, of course." Her cheeks and eyes flashed with color and he felt her grit her teeth. He smirked and extended his arm towards the armchair in which he had previously been seated. "This is my chair." He touched his chin thoughtfully. "I also want that one," he added, pointing across the room at a recliner facing a bookshelf with a lamp placed conveniently next to it.

"That's a _couch_," Hermione protested. He tutted her into silence.

"Do not ever enter my room, that goes without saying," he continued haughtily, "and if there ever is a problem you are to knock up to three times and you may call out once. Otherwise, do not bother me." He turned to face her. "I will _not _be your spider-killer, I will _not _reach the shelves too high for you, and I will _not _be a shoulder for you to cry on in your times of trying female passion." She pulled a face at him halfway between disgust and disbelief and he smartly adjusted his tie, raising himself up to full height. He looked down the bridge of his nose at her and smirked. She sucked in a deep breath and he barely had time to be pleased by the effect he had on her before she caught him off guard with both palms pressed against his shoulders. He paused for a moment, eyebrows furrowed, before she caught him off guard again with a disdainful and very aggressive push.

"I think ignoring each other may just be the best option after all," she replied snottily, tossing her hair and sauntering past him to climb the steps of her dormitory.

He followed her with his gaze even after her door closed, absolutely livid.

"Right, NEW RULE!" he screamed finally, his hands clenching into fists at his side. "_Don't you FUCKING touch me!"_

* * *

In time it proved exceedingly more difficult to ignore each other than they'd originally imagined. Draco's night showers often meant that Hermione was subjected to his loud and somewhat less than operatic singing voice, and she would simply _have _to bang on the bathroom door for fear of not getting any work done at all. Hermione's near constant study sessions and her penchant for playing quiet classical music during them meant that Draco awoke in a bad mood at seven o' clock nearly every single morning. They led prefects' meetings together and patrolled weekly together and it was very difficult (and, quite honestly, a bit boring) to attempt those duties without ever once addressing each other. Things transformed nicely as the days progressed to a near-tolerable level of mutual dislike._  
_

And so, as they shifted from endless battles over every little thing into a resenting comfort of respectful hostility, Hermione began wearing her pyjamas out in the Common Room.

It wasn't often, mind, and they were still _Hermione's _pyjamas—meaning homely and dowdy things more likely to be seen in a children's movie about a summer camp than in even the most modest of fantasies—but Draco, to his own surprise, found himself feeling some kind of sick enjoyment in seeing her out of her primly pressed school clothes. No, it wasn't anything obliquely sexual, he assured himself. God help him, he mused, if he ever began to find something so frigid and unattractive even remotely sexual. Surely if he were looking to creatures like that it would mean he'd have lost his touch with women altogether. And he had quite a touch with women, indeed.

Increasingly often, for example, as Draco began to settle into his position and into his new accommodations, he found himself resuming his role as chief entertainer of young witches, often bringing the girls to his bedroom late in the night when he was sure Hermione was asleep. At first he assumed she never noticed, but as time wore on and he became sloppier with his concealment, a different kind of thought consumed him. There was no way she didn't know. After a month or two, he was bloody loud about his entrances (often the Firewhisky had a bit to do with that), and the girls he led up the steps to his bedroom were sometimes bloody loud as well, despite his efforts to keep their mouths occupied. (He did have _some _semblance of respect, after all.)

No, Hermione knew. And that meant either one of two things—she was too embarrassed to ask him to stop, or she _didn't mind._


	2. 2: A Sickening Surprise

**(6/7/16)**

**GUYS.**

**GUYS LISTEN.**

**GUYS, OK, LISTEN.**

**OK GUYS.**

**Don't throw anything at me I know I haven't updated in literal years I _swear_ I have been trying but I just didn't know how.**

**Brutal confession time: For the dozens of stories I have written in my life, I have only finished one, once, by accident. That's because I _never planned the stories out in advance._ So I _never knew what was going to happen._ **

**While that is a very fun way to write, it's also very hard. And it seldom, if ever, leads to an ending. Instead, it ends up with plot and characters written into a corner, where they fizzle out and die. **

**While that is all very depressing, I NOW HAVE A BIT MORE EXPERIENCE WITH WRITING, and I have read through my old fics and picked the one that was most salvageable. I found that it was, of course, this one-chapter story that I never could figure out how to continue.**

**I have a plan this time.**

**I am going to do my damnedest to see this through.**

**Wish us both luck.**

**DISCLAIMER: JKR owns everything (like, actually everything)**

* * *

Draco could, of course, never be certain whether Hermione was truly unbothered by his late night prowlings. He would never _ask _the witch, for God's sake (don't be daft), but he felt she must be at least somewhat annoyed by his using their shared living spaces to shag young ladies left and right. After a few months of debauchery, he was consumed with the question of why she hadn't spoken up. Draco was ashamed to admit that bedding witches became less about the actual sport of it all and more about wondering how much he could get away with before Hermione's sexless embarrassment lost out to her indignation.

Naturally, he began to test his hypothesis.

Many a young lady benefited from Hermione's stubborn silence. Draco became more eager to please than ever before, obsessed with maximizing the pleasure of his partners, unsatisfied with himself until he had brought each witch to a screaming climax.

Draco had witches in the Common Room.

He had them in the bathroom.

He had them, god save him, on top of a pile of books that Hermione had neatly stacked just hours before.

He even _deliberately _left the books strewn about the floor and desk, absolutely giddy with the fact that, surely, Hermione would _have _to suck up her bloody pride (or whatever it was that was gluing her prudish, prissy mouth shut) and they would have a row the very next morning.

But they did not.

By the time Draco awoke for lessons, rolling out of bed with boyish glee, Hermione's books were gone.

It was in this state of constant, bewildered frustration that Draco found himself when he stumbled into the Common Room on the night that changed everything.

…

Draco nearly toppled down the stairs from his private quarters, catching himself on the doorframe just in time. It was half-three and the pretty little Ravenclaw he'd been entertaining on this beautiful autumn evening was snoring loudly in his bed. She'd woken him up at least twice that night, and he grit his teeth and reminded himself not to ask her over again.

She came _silently_, the bloody nerve of her. Worse yet, she hadn't even gotten him off properly. He sighed to himself. They couldn't all be winners, after all. At this rate, however, he had the entire year to find out which ones were.

Draco was in the process of snickering at that thought when he registered a movement at the left corner of the room.

He turned lazily and was confronted by an absolutely flooring sight.

Hermione Granger, once again out of her perfectly pressed school robes. Three months in and she still hadn't spoken up. Draco realized with a jolt that he hadn't actually seen her in the Common Room in an absurdly long time, school robes or not. He'd seen her in lessons, of course, sitting in front of him and distracting him by not noticing him at all. He'd seen her in the hallways, in the Great Hall, out on the grounds. Each time she not only ignored him, but genuinely seemed not to see him. She seemed to be ignorant of his existence completely. Even on their patrols her face was so set in an expression of total indifference that he'd actually begun to wonder if she'd been sleeping somewhere else, and his midnight ministrations were all for naught. Presently, Draco blinked twice and rubbed his eyes.

No, she was definitely still here.

And this was the first time he'd ever seen her in neither her Gryffindor uniform nor the laughably conservative pyjamas he'd become accustomed to.

No, this time she stood facing away from him, hair gathered into a haphazard excuse for a ponytail, loose curls escaping the elastic to travel down the center of her back. She wore a plain white shirt. Very small. _Too _small. Small enough that Draco didn't have to imagine the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the heave of her breast as it strained against fabric. His eyes raked deliciously over her torso and came to rest just below the hem, and he frowned.

Bare leg.

Hermione Granger, in their shared Common Room, wearing a Very Small white shirt and—Merlin help him—a pair of high-cut cotton panties.

Draco's breath became ragged and quick. He was hyperventilating. He was dying.

The sick pleasure he'd enjoyed at seeing her in her night clothes was _nothing _compared to this. His whole body was on fire and suddenly the Ravenclaw in his bed—the Slytherin who'd been there the night before—the many Hufflepuffs and the handful of Gryffindors who'd joined him since the beginning of the year in his misguided attempts to bother the Head Girl—all of them faded away and he was left with the divine knowledge that none of them would ever compare to the stuffy, priggish, puritanical young filth in front of him now.

He gripped the edge of the door, peering around it with every vestige of self control he could muster. He groaned to himself as Hermione shifted her weight to her opposite leg, her bum rolling deliciously in the little cotton underpants as she busied herself with the book in front of her.

He didn't know he was capable of having these feelings for a Mudblood, and he regarded himself carefully, pressed with desire as he watched her.

He sobbed dryly, racked by the thought of how lucky any man would be to touch that sullied skin, to revel in her stench, to come close enough to taste the filthy warmth of her mouth. In that moment, Draco was a bottom feeder and he didn't care. He wanted her.

Surely, however, the only men to brush—even accidentally—against that rounded little bottom were Potty and the Weasel. Yes, Granger was such a bookish little prude that Draco was _sure _she'd denied even the advances of her two best friends. He swore at his Slytherin affiliations, lamented his Pureblood status and cursed his own name. He vowed to himself that he would begin brewing a batch of Polyjuice Potion the very next day, certain that the only way to coerce even a kiss from the frigid princess would be to disguise himself as a bright-eyed Gryffindor.

He nodded to himself and pursed his lips, his plan set in motion.

Yes.

Polyjuice Potion.

He would examine her robes carefully for the hair of someone she could trust, and then—

Draco was in the act of closing his door, wheels of his mind racing, when Hermione in the Common Room turned sharply towards her own bedroom. He watched her smile and followed her gaze, only to be confronted by a sight that would keep him awake at night for months to come.

The dark skin, the long and muscled limbs, the angular features and lazy smile of the all-too-familiar figure that Draco had known for seven years.

Blaise Zabini.

Blaise fucking Zabini.

Standing in a pair of white silk boxers at the top of the steps, arms crossed over the banister and gazing down at Hermione with a familiarity that Draco couldn't comprehend.

His head spun and his knees actually buckled for a moment as he stepped away from the door, grasping furiously at the nearest sharp object to test himself with. He settled for a high-heeled shoe and stabbed it into his own foot, gasping out in pain as it made contact with his flesh. He bled freely.

This was no dream.

Draco sped back to his bedroom door, easing it open quietly.

But they were gone.

Hermione's door was shut.

And Draco was alone.


	3. 3: See for Yourself

**!**

**As always, please let me know what you think. I hope you're having a lovely day.**

* * *

"BLAISE!" Draco roared, tossing the tapestry over his shoulder in his unbridled rage.

Blaise sat facing him, wearing a look of unaffected nonchalance as he regarded his fellow Slytherin. "Fancy meeting you here," he grinned, waggling his eyebrows.

Draco grabbed his elbow roughly, wrenching his friend away from Crabbe, Goyle, Millicent, Pansy, and a gaggle of other bewildered Slytherins. Draco, fuming, dragged Blaise off of the emerald-colored couches and toward the dormitories.

"Not that it's not a nice surprise, of course," Blaise continued, gesturing with one hand. "It's just that we'd all assumed you were _busy_, what with Head duties and all." Blaise couldn't suppress the grin that split his features, his feigned innocence cracking with his smile. Draco tightened his grip and threw his friend into his own empty room, slamming the door shut behind them.

Blaise lifted a casual hand as he fell to the ground, beaming at Draco and trying to force a look of confusion. "Hey, now, friend," he sniggered. "What's this about?"

Draco ripped into Blaise's bed, hurling sheets and pillows clear across the room and roaring angrily as he did so. Blaise cupped his cheek with one hand, resting his elbow on his knee in mock concern. "WHAT," Draco bellowed, punctuating his words with blows to an unlucky pillow, "WERE—YOU—DOING—IN—MY—COMMON ROOM—LAST—NIGHT?" Draco finished with his face inches from Blaise's, a fire in his eyes. Blaise smirked.

"Oh, just last night, then? That's all this is about?"

Draco sputtered incoherently, turning purple.

Blaise laughed, rocking backwards like a schoolboy in his merriment, as if they were playing a little game. "Well, I knew you would find out eventually," he sighed finally, tutting softly as he shook his head.

"Do you love her?! Is that why you've been coming to visit?!" Draco demanded stupidly, sounding rather dense even to himself.

Blaise's face contorted, taken aback, and he laughed ever harder. He patted Draco gently on the cheek. "Oh, my sweet boy, no," he sighed. "Granger and I are _fucking._"

Draco stared dumbly.

Blaise smiled his pity. "No, I didn't expect you to understand, dear. You see, when a man and a woman-"

"I KNOW WHAT IT IS," Draco roared. Blaise giggled. "You—what do you mean you're? With Granger?! How long?" he stammered.

"Oh, for fucking ever, Draco," Blaise answered incredulously. "You're really that dense? You had no idea?" Blaise paused, searching Draco's face, before finishing. "Granger and I have been going at it near-constantly since last year."

Draco fell backwards, collapsing into a sitting position, reeling.

"Y-you don't think that's a bit-?"

"Stupid? But of course," his friend shrugged, grinning his nonchalance.

"A-and her friends?" Draco demanded. "Surely, if those little Gryffindor-"

"They know," Blaise answered simply.

Draco stared dumbfounded. Blaise allowed another smile to creep across his face, clearly getting some kind of sick kick out of watching his best friend suffer.

"Hermione and I dated, Draco. For _months._"

Draco nearly fell backward from the shock. It was too much at once.

"You know Gryffindors. Always wanting to see the _good _in people. Not all Slytherins are bad, you know," Blaise snickered, affecting a saccharine voice and straightening himself up to make an angelic face.

"And—what-?" Draco inquired, unable to break himself away from the trainwreck unfolding in front of him.

"It didn't work out, of course." Blaise gave a simple dismissive gesture and a shrug of his shoulders. "Not to anyone's discredit, or to anyone's surprise. But her Gryffindor cronies actually liked me a lot, for some reason, and she's a _fucking _good lay, Draco, I can tell you that." Blaise waggled his eyebrows again, leaning in with a predatory smile to emphasize his point.

Draco blinked rapidly, unable to believe his ears. Blaise took his silence for skepticism and held up both hands defensively.

"Yeah, yeah. I know what you're thinking. I thought the same. But I am here to tell you you're wrong, my friend." Blaise inhaled very deeply and fanned himself with one hand, expelling all his hair at once in a slow and steady puff, gazing pointedly at Draco as he did so. "Hoo, boy, are you wrong."

"That's _FUCKING _disgusting, Zabini, and you know it," Draco spat viciously, getting up to pace angrily behind him. He gesticulated wildly, his steps quickening as he spoke. "You're a bloody fucking monster. You actually _dated _the-?" he continued, voice cracking. "You-you've probably fucking _kissed _her, haven't you?" he demanded suddenly, stopping to address Blaise directly. Blaise shrugged his shoulders in response and Draco's mouth curled down into a sneer of utter contempt. "You're disgusting and I should report you-I should tell Snape, or Dumbledore-I should-I should tell your bloody _parents_, tell them you're fraternizing with a Mudblood, that you're-" He was stomping about with such a look of disdain that Blaise faltered for a moment in his tauntings.

"Geezus, Draco," he muttered quietly. "Is this really about her blood status?"

"What the bloody hell's that supposed to mean?" Draco snapped, whirling around on his heel to face his classmate. Blaise eyed him carefully, searching Draco's face, which of course grew hot under his gaze.

"Oh, nothing, friend," he answered finally. "It's just that, if I didn't know you so well, I'd think that this complete overreaction was less about me slumming it with a Mudblood and more about you being _jealous_." Blaise leered, raising his eyebrows in an unmistakable challenge.

"SOD. THE FUCK. OFF!" Draco barked, his face contorting in indignation. His heart was beating so quickly, now, and with a prickle of terror in his underbelly Draco realized that he didn't know whether it was from unbridled rage or fear of being found out. The terror was quickly joined by nausea. Draco wracked his brain, eyes skittering back and forth.

Yes, he thought coldly with a pursing of his lips. He _did _want desperately to touch her. Ever since that night, Draco had been obsessed with the idea of cornering Blaise and wrapping his fingers round his throat, demanding answers in a venomous hiss. His Head duties and classes were the only thing that had kept him from doing exactly that. Instead, Draco had plotted exactly what he was going to say, down the the very last word. When finally blessed with the opportunity of a confrontation, however, all he'd managed was a few guttural screeches and the pillaging of Blaise's room. He winced at his momentary loss of self control.

He supposed, if he were completely honest with himself, Draco might be able to say that, yes, okay, he was a bit jealous. He'd assumed, naturally enough, that Hermione had never been touched _at all, _let alone intimately. Let alone, he thought bitterly, by a fellow _Slytherin. _By his own _best friend! _Draco sneered to himself, the seething anger bubbling up like bile from his intestines. If he let his thoughts of Granger come freely instead of dismissing them the second they came into his head, Draco was able to acknowledge the fact that he'd actually longed to defile his own perfect skin with her own since sometime back in their second year.

He suppressed a gag.

Okay. He admitted it. Yes. He was a bit jealous.

"I'm not jealous," Draco answered, crossing his arms after a very lengthy pause. He deliberately avoided Blaise's mocking gaze.

"Of course you're not." Draco could feel the sarcasm dripping from his voice, and he rolled his eyes.

"You've every right to be, you know," Blaise continued. "I didn't know you'd felt this strongly, of course, mate. But I should have known that sharing a dorm with the witch would obviously amplify any _feelings_-"

"I DON'T HAVE ANY BLOODY FEELINGS_," _Draco interrupted in outrage.

Blaise snickered.

After a long and stubborn silence, Draco's obstinacy gave way to curiosity.

He uncrossed his arms, turning over his shoulder to hesitantly address Blaise.

"But she's that good, eh?" Draco grinned, unable to stop himself. Blaise laughed uproariously and clapped him on the back.

"There's my boy!"

"Alright, then," Draco smirked, dragging a pillow over to sit on. "Let's hear it."

Blaise shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't do it, mate."

Draco let out a cry of defiance.

"Sorry, mate, I fucking _care _about the little bint!"

Draco made a face of repulsed withdrawal, scooting back and away from his classmate. Blaise laughed again.

"Not like _that_, idiot," he assured. "I respect the bitch. She's a clever little minx, as you already know." Draco eyed him suspiciously. "She _has _to be, to keep up with you, right?" Draco's expression remained unchanged.

"Are you a blood traitor, Blaise?" Blaise rolled his eyes.

"Well, don't take my word for it, then," he sighed, standing up and brushing at his pants with his hands. "You should see for yourself."

Draco's smile faltered and Blaise quirked his eyebrows once, a smirk playing at his lips.

"You know you want to."


	4. 4: The First Attempt

**I know, I know. I'm blowing through these chapters alarmingly quickly. Perhaps too quickly? Now that I've got the story planned out this time, I've actually gotten a few chapters ahead, but I'm considering spacing them out to about once a week, in case that's a more reasonable update schedule than sporadically throughout the day and night. Opinions?**

**Please leave me a review if you are so inclined!**

**DISCLAIMER: None of this is mine except for the actual words**

* * *

Draco had lain in bed that night, awake and alone, _knowing _that his best friend and a dirty Mudblood were just across the bathroom having it off. Probably loudly. Probably with silencing charms on every inch of the room. Draco found himself wondering if she was loud in the sack, if she used dirty words, if she demanded to be the one in charge. He rolled his eyes. That certainly fit her character. _Not that he'd mind, of course. Might be rather interesting to—_Draco expelled the thought from his mind with a quick shake of his head. There would be none of that. Though he'd have loved to pretend he was angry and disgusted, his prominent erection was giving him a difficult time of it. He'd wanked three times before forcing himself to sleep, and when he woke up he'd wanked twice more.

Hermione in bed with a Slytherin.

Nevermind that the Slytherin wasn't exactly him, _per se. _Blaise _was_ a Slytherin, and a Pureblood, and an arrogant little prick. He and Draco were nearly interchangeable, if you were only able to get past the empathy and the natural caring that Blaise possessed and Draco lacked. Even her friends knew, Draco mused, and Blaise still hadn't been jinxed to oblivion. He smirked. Those bloody Gryffindors were too trusting for their own bloody good. Perhaps, if a Slytherin had already won their hearts so easily, it wouldn't be so hard for old Draco to sneak in and sample the little princess for himself.

After all, Blaise _had_ told him to give her a try.

And so, as he spent the day seated directly behind the witch, eyes searing holes through her robes as she preoccupied him once again with her _captivating _indifference, Draco made up his mind.

There was only one thing to do.

* * *

"Granger!" Draco called out. He watched with satisfaction as she jumped a foot into the air, shoulders shooting up beside her ears.

"Yes?" she answered wearily, glancing around to see if anyone was watching their exchange.

"What's the matter, Granger, embarrassed to be seen with me?" Draco mocked, closing the gap between them. Hermione rolled her eyes, clutching her textbook to her chest and tapping her foot against the cold stone in annoyance.

"Not in the slightest," she answered coolly. "I was just under the impression that we'd had a deal, that's all."

"And what, exactly, was that?" Draco crooned, taking another step towards her. Hermione gave him a pointed look of confusion, as if he were positively mad, and made a matching step in the opposite direction.

"That you would leave me_ bloody well _alone," she shot back defiantly, perching her hand upon her hip in typical Hermione fashion. Draco grinned and she sighed exasperatedly. "Honestly, Malfoy, what is it? It can't be our duties, since we've been perfectly capable of managing them without speaking thus far."

"No," Malfoy responded slowly.

"What, then?" she pressed, her foot tapping still in annoyance. "Help with your studies?" she scoffed.

He scoffed in return. They both knew perfectly well how good his marks were.

"Come to apologize for how horrible you've been?" He rolled his eyes and raised his eyebrows at her in a mocking gesture.

"Then what is it, Malfoy?" Hermione inquired impatiently. She sneered at him and took a half-step closer, breaching his personal space as she leaned up to whisper. "Come to talk to me about _girls_?" Their sudden proximity sent a not-altogether unpleasant shiver down his spine, but he recovered quickly, forcing his expression from one of eager surprise into one of cool nonchalance as she retracted her lips from the skin at the side of his neck.

She searched his face for a reaction, determination etched into her features, and then huffed her amusement, rolled her eyes, and turned prissily away with her nose in the air.

Draco caught her about the wrist instantly, spinning her to face him as her mouth opened in shock. He gripped both shoulders and held her still, his nose mere inches from hers.

"Yes, actually," he drawled, voice dropping to its lowest registers. To his extreme pleasure, she shivered and shut her eyes, turning her head to the side and unconsciously exposing her neck.

"Let go of me, Malfoy," Hermione bit, thrashing her arm about in an effort to wrench it from his grasp. She stayed unpanicked, he noticed, though they were currently in a rather crowded hallway and he had her hands pinned against the wall as she struggled against him. She seemed mostly annoyed. Non threatened. Passing students assumed they were in some sort of Head Students' quarrel—must be common, with two such headstrong characters—and paid them no mind, save for a sidelong glance.

"So you've heard, then?" he asked softly, cocking his head to one side. He was unable to keep the triumphant grin from spilling across his features and Hermione stilled herself, glaring at him with animalistic ferocity.

"Of course I've heard," she answered. Draco was surprised at the levelness of her voice.

"And what did you think?" he murmured, leaning his head down to nuzzle the side of her neck.

Hermione kneed him sharply in the upper thigh and he doubled over, groaning in pain and anger.

"I didn't think anything at all," she answered flatly, stepping out from behind him and crossing her arms. "What you do is none of my business."

"Bitch!" Draco managed to gasp. She tutted at him, shaking her head lightly.

"Is that all you wanted? To ask if I can hear your barbarous grunts from the Common Room behind my door?" Here she added a few gorilla-like noises, leaning in closer to mock him fiercely. Draco colored slightly but ignored her.

"That's not all you heard," he dismissed, rubbing at his leg as he stood up and regained his composure. Now it was Hermione's turn to blush.

"What d'you mean?" she asked stupidly, her shoulders retracting away from him.

"Come, now, Granger," Draco cooed, doing his damnedest to ooze that scintillating Malfoy charm from every pore in his body. He stepped towards her again, chest first, pressing into her before she was able to scuttle fearfully away. "Surely you must be _curious_?" he hummed against her, his fingers coming up to play lightly behind her ear. She recoiled but did not pull away, and he searched her face with lazy half-lidded eyes, a smirk at his lips. She met his gaze with malice, chest heaving in the narrowing space between them. "Surely, even a pretty little prude like you must wonder what exactly it is I _do _to those witches, hm?" he coaxed. A rough red blotch spread its way from her neck across to her cheeks, and Hermione broke eye contact for a fraction of a second, eyelashes fluttering, before meeting him once again. "That's a good girl," he murmured, and he felt Hermione stiffen as his head bent down to her neck once more.

"Just what on earth do you think you're—" Hermione whispered icily, but Draco continued as if he hadn't heard.

"Besides," he smirked, his breath hot as he pressed first his cheek, then his nose, against her tender flesh. "I've found recently that you're not quite the prude you'd like us all to believe, after all."

He felt, rather than heard, the hard _crack _of his back against stone, and he winced as he rubbed the back of his head, stars exploding behind his eyelids.

"What do you mean?" Hermione demanded. As he blinked her back into focus he was dimly aware of the point of her wand at his jugular vein. Draco snickered.

"Come on, love, there's no need for that," he assured, encircling her hand with his own and drawing the wand away from himself. "We're just having a conversation."

"What do you mean?" she asked again, snatching her hand away from his, defiant as ever. Draco huffed impatiently and experimentally tested a grab at her waist. She brushed it away.

"I just meant that I've heard of _your _little escapades, too, Granger, and I must say I was a bit…surprised? As I'm sure anyone who knows you would be," he added with a flippant gesture of his hand.

Hermione lowered her wand and scoffed at him. "Oh, is that what you think?" she sneered, clearly incensed.

"But I must say," he continued, pawing at her hips as she twisted away from him, "if a _Pureblood _was able to touch your filthy skin without soiling himself, then I dare say it mustn't be _too _bad, hm?"

A sharp tearing sensation blasted through Draco's fingers and up to his left shoulder and he cried out in pain and alarm. He jumped away from her and, with a shaking hand, tore his robes back. She'd _burned _him! She'd bloody _burned _him, the crazy bint! He gaped open-mouthed at the scar she'd left behind: a bright, white map of tissue imprinted at the front of his left forearm.

"OW!" Draco roared in indignation, brandishing his new disfigurement in front of her face. "You nasty little _bitch! _You _Mudblood! _You _pathetic_ excuse for a witch! You filthy _Muggle!_"

Hermione had turned her back and was pacing in wide circles, one hand in her bushy hair, the other clutching her wand so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

"Oh, BLOODY romantic, Malfoy, that's what you are!" she screeched at him. She applauded dramatically, shifting her weight onto one leg, skin flushed with fury. "_Exactly _what I want to hear, _exactly _the way to woo a girl, bravo!" she yelled, her movements erratic and frenzied. "Oh, it wouldn't be _so bad _to touch my 'filthy skin,' would it? Oh, thank you so much, Malfoy, thank you!" she laughed dangerously. He recoiled slightly and she whirled around to face him. "You're a fucking _freak_ is what you are!" she shrilled, voice rising dangerously close to that dying chinchilla decibel level he loathed. He winced and covered one ear in response. She punctuated the following with furious stamps of her foot, bellowing through the corridor: "If you _ever _think for _one instant_ that I'd _ever _in my _life _have _any _sexual attraction to a prejudiced—loathsome—ignorant—vile—bloody _foul _little toad like you, then _please, _by all means, tell me _immediately _so I can have you sent away forever to St. Mungo's where you _belong_!"

Draco watched, stupefied, as her chest rose and fell, her skin damp with perspiration, her breathing ragged and her eyes dark, cheeks burning bright red with passion. She inhaled deeply before continuing, her voice steady and even.

"You're lucky my _Muggle _mother raised such a good witch," Hermione bit, venom dripping from her words, "because there's nothing I'd like more right now than to wring your neck. _Wandless_. The way a _Mudblood _would do it."

* * *

Draco didn't remember her leaving.

He didn't even remember leaving himself.

All he remembered was being in double potions, hours later, and finding himself curiously unable to muster more than one concealed glance at the girl every five or six minutes. Something unfamiliar had wound itself into the pit of his stomach, and his ears singed (along with the burn on his left arm) whenever he dared a peek at the Gryffindor in front of him.


	5. 5: Gryffindor for a Night

**Brutally long chapter today. Probably the longest in this series.**

**DISCLAIMER: JKR owns everything in this story except for the actual arrangement of the words**

* * *

When he finally returned to the Common Room to retire, alone once again, Draco made sure to do it at a time when Hermione would be in bed. He'd stalled for hours: studying in the library, staring at the walls in the library, crumpling bits of parchment into tiny balls and throwing them over the banisters at people in the library. He even went on a few voluntary rounds by himself, administering detentions and docking house points as he saw fit. When he checked his watch and found that the night had somehow slipped to half-ten, Draco nodded smugly and made his way to his dormitory.

Imagine his surprise, therefore, when the portrait door swung shut behind him and he was greeted by none other than Harry Potter.

And the rest of his loathsome little friends.

Draco's face twisted with revulsion but he stood his ground. He bristled, feeling much like a cornered animal, and his eyes darted towards his bedroom door as he plotted his escape. The group of Gryffindors stared silently back at him, seated in a neat little circle by the fire.

Draco's eyes scanned the room in his attempt to get his bearings.

Ron was there. He sat facing the fire, staring blankly over his traitorous shoulder at Draco.

The Weaselette was there, too. The redheaded little minx whose name he didn't know. She leaned back on her hands and regarded him carefully.

There was another, as well—the striking Ravenclaw with long wavy blonde hair whose eyes were always halfway shut. She gazed at him through her eyelashes, the quiet curiosity in her expression a welcome respite from the blatant contempt of those around her.

Hermione was there, of course, staring him down with a cold expression. She was, surprisingly, the only one he could feel actively hating him in that moment.

And, Harry, Draco noted with disdain, sat with his butt planted firmly in Draco's seat. His upper lip curled in annoyance.

"Malfoy," Harry nodded.

"Hullo," the Weasel followed tonelessly.

Draco nodded back, shuffling sideways in order to keep as much distance between them as he could. He was _very _much outnumbered and his heart pounded in his chest, certain that they were here to hex him senseless. He groped at the wall behind him, never breaking eye contact. The room was deathly silent as his indignation grew.

How _dare _she have her friends over without consulting him first! She _knew _how uncomfortable this would be for him, the little minger! He felt along the wall to find the stairs, all involved parties staring expressionlessly into each others' eyes for what must have been the longest minute of Draco's life.

And then the toilet flushed, the bathroom door swung open behind him, and Draco snatched his wand out in alarm, mentally berating himself for not having seen their little ambush coming.

"What are you doing, you bellend?" Blaise asked dubiously, wiping his hands with Draco's own hand towel. The release of Draco's breath was audible and his shoulders slumped forward in relief. He couldn't keep from laughing as he thumped Blaise on the back.

"You bloody wanker," he grinned. "Scared me half to death!"

Blaise laughed back and nodded towards the fire.

"Sit with us."

Draco's smile faltered.

"Surely you're not going to bed already? On a Friday night? That's very unlike you," Blaise tutted. He addressed the group with a charming smile and Draco was surprised to see them smile back. "Unless, of course," Blaise continued, his voice dropping to just above a whisper, "you've got more_ pressing _matters to attend to." He winked and Draco blanched.

"Not tonight," he answered, a little stiffly.

"Oh, good," Blaise beamed, awarding Draco another sly little wink as he caught him around the shoulders and steered him toward the group. "Then you've no excuse."

"On second thought," Draco sputtered, his feet stalling against the carpet as his friend forced him forward, "I _do _have more pressing matters—"

"We've got Firewhisky," blurted the Weaselette. Draco accosted her with a bewildered stare, eyes darting from Blaise to the redhead and back again. He was mystified by the lack of objections from the other four, and his eyes met Hermione's with a silent plea. She sneered and looked away.

"Lots of it," the Ravenclaw affirmed. She granted him a little smile, and the two girls looked knowingly at each other.

Ron scooted stiffly over as the two Slytherins approached.

"We've been here since just after classes," Blaise explained, kicking a glass out of the way and motioning for Draco to sit down. Draco blinked. The faint smell of alcohol greeted his nostrils and he couldn't keep from smirking as he took his place between the Ravenclaw and the Weaselette.

So they'd been _drinking. _He glanced backwards at Blaise, who was separating couch cushions to seat himself on the armrest beside Harry. Blaise was purposefully avoiding Draco's gaze, an insuppressible smile teasing at the corner of his lips.

Draco chuckled to himself and shook his head lightly. If anything could be said about Blaise, it was that the boy was fiercely loyal. Whether his friend had planned this get-together or was merely taking advantage of a fruitful situation, Draco wasn't sure. What he _was _sure of, from many past experiences, was that if Blaise had anything to do with it Draco would not be leaving the Common Room alone tonight.

Many times in their seven years at Hogwarts, Blaise had single-handedly charmed witches from every house into stealing away with Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, Flint, and Nott. His crowning achievement—and the one at which the Slytherins _still _laughed uproariously at every party—was Blaise's managing to convince two Hufflepuffs into following Millicent Bulstrode to bed.

Millicent had confided only hours earlier that she sometimes entertained confusing feelings about members of the fairer sex, and that very night she blushed beet red as Blaise waved her off with two beautiful young witches, the boys rolling around in fits on the common room floor.

Blaise knew that Draco would never pass up a chance at one of the ladies of Potter's inner circle, and Draco crossed his legs comfortably, smirking to himself in an unconcealed combination of amusement and nervous excitement. He stole a peek at Hermione, who was staring moodily into the fire, and panicked slightly as he watched Blaise sidle up to her. Draco tried to signal him without the others' noticing, hoping that he could somehow make Blaise understand, without drawing attention to himself, that he wanted _nothing _to do with the Granger girl at that moment. The others, of course, were more than fair game. Weasel's own baby sister, and her little best friend? Why, Draco would have stories for years to come.

But Hermione? He shuddered.

Something about their interaction earlier still sent Draco's stomach twisting whenever he managed the courage to look directly at her.

"Come now, Hermione, don't you want to have a good time?" Blaise entreated, producing a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky from behind the armchair and filling a glass. Draco bristled at his use of her first name, and he noticed from the corner of his eye that Ron suffered a startlingly similar reaction. "You needn't have any if you don't want to," he coaxed, and Draco fought to hide his repugnance as Blaise brushed the knuckles of his hand against her cheek, offering her the drink. He squirmed uncomfortably. "But if you do…" Blaise trailed off with a grin. Hermione fought a smile before she acquiesced, taking the glass from his hand with a tiny smirk. The Gryffindors gave a cheer and Draco gaped, amazed at Blaise's coerciveness. Sure that no one was watching, he gave Draco a triumphant quirk of his eyebrow.

"Alright, alright," Hermione admonished, using her other hand to quiet her friends. She used the glass to hide her smile, face pointed shyly to the floor. "Careful, now, no teasing. I _am _Head Girl, after all, and I'm not afraid to dock you points."

"From your own house," the Weaselette sobbed, wiping a nonexistent tear from her eye. Draco was surprised to find himself laughing along with everyone else as he took a glass from Blaise, who was now pouring for all those in the circle.

"Now, look," Blaise began, once everyone was holding a drink. He sat up tall and cleared his throat, addressing the room at large. "Voldemort's gone, the war is over. There's nothing left to fight about now. So why don't we squash this petty little quarrel once and for all in favor of a night of drunken fun?" Blaise lifted his glass into the center of the circle and flashed his handsome, toothy grin at the students around him. "To new friends."

Draco watched as Harry and Ron exchanged pointed looks, raising their eyebrows and smirking at each other. But they did not hesitate before lifting their own glasses to meet Blaise.

"To new friends," Harry repeated, meeting Draco's eyes and giving him a curt nod.

Draco could do nothing but nod back, his cheeks burning.

* * *

"Oh, shut up, Malfoy," Ginny slurred, spilling the contents of her glass as she fell over him once again. Draco's eyebrows shot up to his hairline and he moved his hands away to keep them from brushing against her plump backside. He was seated in a chair at the center of the room and she'd just collapsed face first on top of him, stretched across the arm rests with her sizeable bottom in his face, firm from hours of Quidditch drills. Draco raised his eyes to meet the boy's in front of him, his expression one of exaggerated disbelief.

"Get off him, Ginny," her brother huffed frustratedly, grabbing at his sister's wrist and yanking until she fell on top of him, instead. "You clumsy dickhead," he growled, rolling her to one side and wheezing in his attempt to catch his breath.

Harry was somewhere above, doubled over with the force of his laughter, and Blaise grinned away at his side, arms crossed.

"Alright, then," Ginny sniffed, rolling herself onto her side to address the lot. "_Your _turn. Truth or dare, Malfoy?"

He gazed down at the Gryffindor in front of him, more than a little sloshed, as he tried to concentrate on what she was saying. "Dare, obviously," he responded shortly.

"Then, obviously," she bit back fiercely, "I dare you to kiss someone in this room."

He rolled his eyes at the cliche.

For hours, now, they'd been playing an adult version of Truth or Dare. The Truths were agonizingly personal to the point of being near-impossible to answer. A player was able to opt out of a Truth by having a drink. A Dare had no opt-out, making it the better choice—provided you were drunk enough to actually do it. The object of the game was to keep from drinking oneself to death.

Unfortunately, due to the presence of her older brother, Ginny had opted out of every single Truth and was losing badly.

"Go on, then!" she screeched, giggling madly to herself and kicking her legs up at the ceiling.

Draco regarded the room.

Blaise smirked at him, standing with his arms across his chest and leaning heavily onto Potter, who was seated cross-legged on the floor. Ginny had rolled herself backwards until her head was in his lap and she was glaring at Draco, obviously annoyed at him for not completing her dare immediately. Draco blinked. On the other side of Harry sat Hermione, one arm wrapped lazily around his neck and the other in his lap, gently brushing Ginny's hair away from her face. Ron sat behind her, his own arms wrapped about her waist in a gesture that Draco could tell was both possessive and foolish in its attempt at nonchalance. Luna lay draped across them all, regarding him with her usual lazy indifference.

Draco felt his smile leave his face as he considered.

"Come on, Malfoy!" Ginny demanded, rolling her head toward the ceiling in her impatience.

"Well, it'd have to be you or your brother then, wouldn't it?" he snapped back angrily. "Not exactly an easy decision!"

"Oi!" Ron called out, sitting up straight and giving Draco his full attention.

"We all know I'm not going to kiss Blaise," Draco dismissed, which was answered by a, "Cheers, mate," from somewhere the left.

"If I choose you," Draco continued, staring pointedly at Ginny, "I'll be pummeled to death by Weasley. And if I choose Weasley, I'll never live it down. Simply can't do it," he reasoned finally, crossing his arms.

"You can't back out of a dare, Malfoy," Harry snickered, his free hand absently twirling a lock of Hermione's bushy hair. Draco felt himself twitch at the familiar gesture.

Hermione disentangled herself from the pool of bodies around her and addressed him directly for the first time all night, slurring slightly as she fought to sit up. "And why couldn't it be me?"

The room went silent and Draco felt his face go very, very hot. Hermione glared at him, the tension in the room positively palpable, and his throat went dry as he attempted to answer. He felt every pair of eyes on his face as he opened and closed his mouth several times, sitting up very straight in order to preserve his last modicum of rapidly-fading dignity.

"I'm a Pureblood, Draco," Luna finally volunteered, rescuing him. Her voice was a soft tinkle. Every pair of eyes shot suddenly towards her.

Draco knelt down and kissed her very quickly on the lips.

When he came back up he felt a distinct drop in energy. The room was silent again. The Gryffindors were slumped over each other. No one looked directly at him. Draco felt, for the second time that day, a queer sensation in the pit of his stomach and a telltale burn across his ears.

Even Blaise wasn't looking at him.

"What?" Draco demanded.

"Would you fetch us something to mix the drinks with, Draco?" the Slytherin asked, a pleading look in his eyes.

"I won't be treated like a child, Blaise," Draco responded heatedly. "If you want me to leave—"

"We're all out," Blaise interrupted swiftly, picking up and swilling an empty carton of pumpkin juice before his friend's eyes.

Draco brought himself up to full height, setting his jaw and squaring his shoulders. "I suppose you'd like me to go alone," he mused scathingly.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Blaise answered simply. "Take Hermione."

There was an audible intake of breath and heads swiveled every which way. Draco flushed through to the roots of his hair.

"Someone else," Hermione responded, her voice a monotone. She was seated once again in Harry's lap, a bored expression on her face, not even bothering to meet anyone's eyes.

"Can't be anyone else, luv," Blaise answered with an apologetic click of his tongue. "'Fraid it's just past midnight." Hermione glared daggers at him.

"And what does _that _mean?"

Blaise faked a shrug and a sympathetic expression. "Means we're all meant to be in bed. The only ones allowed out past curfew, as you well know, are—"

"Head Boy and Girl," Harry finished, realization washing over him. He erupted into a fit of uncontrollable laughter and the other students soon joined in, leaving Draco and Hermione to watch stone faced. "Oh," Harry sighed finally, wiping his eyes. "Sorry, 'Mione, babe, you know I'd go with you if I could." He grinned at her, waggling his eyebrows, and Hermione smacked him hard on the arm.

"Well, he can go alone, for all I bloody well care!" she objected, shouting to be heard over her friends' raucous laughter.

"Don't be cruel, Hermione!" Blaise countered, raising a hand to his chest dramatically. "You know how the castle gets past midnight. Head Boy and Girl are always to patrol _together._ How would you feel if Draco were to be attacked?"

"Bloody well satisfied!" she bellowed back, kicking a leg into the air for emphasis.

The students around them laughed and Draco stood up, having heard quite enough.

"I'll go alone," he offered haughtily. "I'm _quite _capable of taking care of myself, thank you." He spun on his heel and made a step towards the door when he heard whispered urging behind him.

"Oh, _sod off_, the lot of you!" Hermione screeched, striking the ground with her fists as she stood up and pushed aggressively past him.

When the portrait door swung shut behind them, Draco heard an explosion of muffled laughter.

* * *

_**.**_

_**.**_

_**.**_

_**Next Chapter: "The Confrontation: A World Turned Upside Down"**_


	6. 6: A World Turned Upside Down

**Very short chapter today.**

**But an important one.**

**To my reviewer: I'm sure you're taking the mickey, but just in case you're not- -Hermione isn't an ugly hag. She's just Muggleborn. The Weasleys are Pureblood.**

**DISCLAIMER: this is my story, but not my characters**

* * *

They'd walked in silence for as long as they could, a ten foot gap between them.

"You're bloody drunk," he'd muttered finally, steadying her with one hand at her elbow as she nearly tumbled into a chasm made by a moving staircase. Hermione had swatted him away.

"Don't touch me," she spat.

"You almost fell!" Draco spat back, releasing her elbow with a bit too much ferocity. She fell backwards onto the stone and he sighed in frustration. "Merlin," he muttered, extending a hand.

Hermione struggled to her feet without it, turning coldly away from him as she waited for the staircase to circle back around.

"There's no need to be childish, Granger," Malfoy chided. She let out a single bark of laughter.

"Oh, yeah, _I'm _childish," she scoffed, arms crossed at her chest. She laughed again. "Because _I'm _the one who only kisses Purebloods for fear of getting cooties."

"It's more than that, you silly bint," Draco dismissed, swiftly becoming annoyed.

"What more, then?" Hermione challenged, spinning eagerly to face him. "What is it?"

"It's the way it should _be_," Draco responded angrily.

"Why?" she challenged, stepping over his words without hesitation.

"Because—"

"Because what?"

"Because it IS!" he roared. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Typical."

"Typical of what?" Draco spat.

"You don't even know why you're not supposed to like us," Hermione responded simply, shrugging her shoulders and giving him with a plaintive expression. "I don't know why I was ever bothered by you. It's bloody sad, really," she muttered.

"Oh, come off it, you slag," Draco bit. He was growing heated very quickly, feeling trapped and interrogated. He clenched his fists and wished the staircase would come faster.

"Slag," Hermione repeated with a snort. "Nice. What, 'Mudblood' too intimate for you right now? I haven't done enough to deserve it yet?"

Draco jiggled his foot angrily, setting his jaw. He could see the bloody thing swinging around at the other end of the hallway. If it would just _hurry up—_

"If you haven't said it, idiot, you _know _it's a bloody disgusting thing to say. You _know _it's mean and hurtful," Hermione continued, facing him fully now and leaning uncomfortably into his personal space.

He turned his head away from hers and fixed his gaze on the upper right corner of the ceiling, clenching and unclenching his jaw as she spoke.

"I'm right here, Malfoy, and I'm a bloody Mudblood! Go ahead and say it! I'm not a person anyways, it's not like I _feel _it!"

Her face was inches from his and Draco was breathing heavily, every muscle in his body tense and quivering with rage.

"Say it!" she screamed, her arms flying up beside her head. "I'm beneath you, aren't I?" She grabbed his hand and Draco flinched, stepping backwards and swiveling to face her in his surprise. She pressed his hand against her chest and he felt his heart rate increase even more than it already had. His skin burned where she touched him.

"I'm warm, aren't I?! D'you feel that?"

She pressed his hand further into her chest and Draco felt the clearly accelerated beating of her heart, striking itself against his palm as she spoke.

"Do you feel it or not?" she demanded.

She slammed her other hand against his own chest and he met her eyes for the first time, his expression one of utter bewilderment. Her eyes were dark and angry, her face flushed, her hair impossibly mussed and extended out around her head like a halo of lightning.

"Oh you've got one too, have you?" she mocked sarcastically. Draco blinked rapidly. They stood at the edge of the empty hallway, impossibly high up, the moonlight from the windows slicing across their faces, hands pressed tight to each other's heaving chests.

"Do you feel it or not, Draco?" she repeated. Slower this time. Softly, almost.

"Yes," he answered finally, shocking himself with the fearful whisper of his voice.

She released him immediately, taking a step back but refusing to lower that challenging gaze. Draco pulled his hand into his chest, gripping his wrist tightly as if he'd been burned.

"Say it, then," she demanded.

He looked at her stupidly, mouth slightly open, rubbing at the wrist she'd been holding onto just moments before.

"…No," he said quietly.

He felt a stinging at the back of his throat and he swallowed hard.

Hermione held his gaze, her expression unreadable, before turning away from him.

Somewhere in that interaction the staircase had returned, and she regarded it carefully.

"Go back," she said, breaking the silence at last. "I'll get the pumpkin juice myself."

Draco took a step backwards, and then another, before turning away from her.

Halfway down the hall he found himself running.

His adrenaline—inexplicably—was at an all-time high.

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_**Next chapter: "The First Night"**_


	7. 7: The First Night

**DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter is not mine (even though I've bought all the books)**

* * *

After that night they'd done everything they could to never see each other again.

Draco knew, from the way he himself was feeling, that Hermione was probably trying to forget they'd ever had that conversation in the hallway. She was pretending she'd never opened up to him, pretending it was her drunkenness that caused her fierce vulnerability. Her drunkenness was the reason she lost control.

He, in turn, pretended he hadn't heard every word she'd said. He pretended it hadn't affected him profoundly. Pretended he didn't constantly have to concentrate on his immediate surroundings in order to keep from dealing with the conflicting ideas now bouncing incessantly around in his head, demanding to be addressed.

He was pretending, in short, that he wasn't losing his grip on what it meant to be Draco Malfoy.

Draco shook his head fiercely, berating himself for having allowed his mind to wander. Especially during _this, _of all times.

He was in bed with another Ravenclaw. A girl who'd obviously heard about his excellence in the sack and was trying to impress him. She was doing those horrid, over-the-top screeches he hated, twisting about on the sheets and making noises like a freshly plucked mandrake.

Draco shushed her angrily, his hand coming up to cover her mouth. He recoiled immediately when she licked it, a transparent attempt to embody what she assumed he wanted. Draco rolled his eyes and pressed his tongue against her, eliciting another screech.

He huffed angrily and propped himself up on one elbow. "Listen," he began, with no attempt to hide his irritation. "You need to keep it down or you need to leave. Is that clear?"

The dumbfounded sixth year nodded, her spread knees closing slightly. Draco rolled his eyes again and resumed his position between them.

After a week had passed he'd begun entertaining girls again. Quiet ones. He snuck them in through the window, now, and made sure they left before morning. None of them were to use the bathroom connecting his and Hermione's rooms.

Hell, he himself hardly used the bathroom connecting his and Hermione's rooms. Not in the mornings or at nights, anyway. No, he'd been bathing in the prefects' baths. Brushing his teeth in the public loo. Having his pisses outside, rather than having to deal with the possibility of meeting the Muggleborn with whom he shared his quarters.

He'd even been skipping out on his weekly Head duties and, to his surprise, Hermione hadn't reported him so far.

Draco shook his head again.

His heart not in it, he had resigned himself to having this pretty little girl off and then going straight to sleep. He'd tell her he cared only about her pleasure, and then he'd kick her out the minute the sun came up.

Except that with all of her fake moaning he was having a difficult time of telling what she actually did and did not like.

He growled in frustration, grabbing onto the leg that she was twirling in the air behind his head, and used all his weight to force it still.

Draco groaned in absolute agony as she squealed again, deciding finally to conjure a long strip of fabric and tie it tightly around her head.

* * *

Draco rubbed angrily at his temples, attempting to fend off the ear-splitting headache that he knew was coming. He lay sprawled out on the couch, a blanket round his waist, twisting the knob on a little clock so as to be sure to wake up before dawn.

He'd be lucky to get even an hour of sleep at this point.

He had been lying like this, his face buried into the plush velvet armrest, seething too hard to actually fall asleep, when he heard the door open.

Assuming it was his Ravenclaw cohort, Draco pretended to be asleep, hoping the small size of the couch would be enough to deter her.

He listened carefully as the footsteps drew nearer, a curious shuffling following immediately behind. The footsteps stopped and he lay deathly still.

"Shite," he heard. He drew a sharp intake of breath and attempted to pass it off as a snore. "I know you're awake, Malfoy," the voice said.

Draco opened his eyes very slowly, debating whether or not to sit up and give away his position.

"Stop it, you idiot, I know you're awake," she said again.

Draco sat up.

"H'lo," he attempted, his bare chest slumped forward over his knees.

Hermione plopped down opposite him, a duvet in her lap, clad in only a very large t-shirt emblazoned with the logo for Chudley Cannons.

For a few moments they were silent, and then Draco sneered.

"That's a rubbish team," he snorted to hide his discomfort.

"Probably. I don't know a thing about Quidditch," Hermione answered, waving her hand to deflect his taunt.

"Why'd you own it, then?" Draco inquired testily, a bit miffed by her reaction to his attempt at friendly banter.

"I don't own it. I borrowed it," she corrected him.

Draco rolled his eyes.

They sat in silence again, and Draco anxiously drummed his fingers on the head of the couch.

"What are you doing out here in the middle of the night? And with a blanket, no less?" Hermione asked finally, considering him with her head tilted slightly to the side.

"I could ask you the same question," Draco answered, with a nod at her lilac-colored duvet.

Hermione's cheeks colored slightly and she sat up straighter. "I know why I'm here. I asked you a question," she snipped. "I'm here now, so why don't you go back to bed?"

"Truthfully?" Draco asked lazily, quirking an eyebrow at her. Hermione gave a curt nod.

"She snores," Draco answered simply, jerking his head in the direction of his bedroom door. Hermione smirked, fighting the urge to smile, and Draco found himself smirking as well.

Hermione seemed to weigh a few options in her mind, and it was a while before she spoke. "…So does he," she said finally, giving her own little nod to her bedroom. Draco chuckled in response.

"Blaise? _Again_?"

Hermione pursed her lips, her eyes fixed in midair, and nodded once.

Draco tutted softly, shaking his head and feigning disappointment. "Unlike you, Granger," he mused.

"How would you know?" she sneered, rolling her eyes and swinging her legs up and over the arm rest of the chair she was seated in. "You don't know the first thing about me."

"Alright, then, tell me something." Draco propped his head up with one hand.

"What?"

"Granger," Draco huffed, annoyed. "It's only a few hours before classes. Neither of us is going to be sleeping tonight. Would you like to sit here in silence, counting the threads on your blanket, or would you like to tell me something that I don't know?"

Hermione regarded him carefully. "What do you know, then? Besides the fact I'm Muggleborn, obviously."

Draco winced involuntarily and was grateful when Hermione didn't draw attention to it.

"That's enough of that," he muttered, his gaze fixed pointedly on the edge of the table between them.

"Oh, you must have forgotten," she sneered. "Go on, then. What else do you know about me?"

"That you're smart, I suppose," Draco answered tonelessly. He glanced up and registered her cold expression. "That your two best friends are bloody insufferable." She snorted. Draco wracked his brain. "And, apparently," he finished, "you don't know a thing about Quidditch."

"Is that all?" she asked, a mocking tone in her voice. Draco rolled his eyes.

"I've got no sisters or brothers," she offered flatly.

"Nor do I," Draco answered automatically.

Both parties glanced upwards at the same time and their eyes met.

Another lengthy pause.

"That's enough of that, don't you think?" Hermione asked, breaking the silence. Draco agreed with relief, nodding swiftly and pulling the blanket up over his legs. "Goodnight, Malfoy," she finished cheerily, turning towards the couch.

Draco faced away from her as well, sinking into the plush velvet, and closed his eyes. He wished for sleep, assuring himself (however incorrectly) that if he could make it through just one night with Hermione at his side, he would never have to endure this discomfort again.

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_**Next chapter: The Routine**_


	8. 8: The Routine

**Thank you guys for your kind words! I'm glad to hear you've enjoyed. **

**DISCLAIMER: This story is mine but literally everything else is not**

* * *

Of course it became routine.

It started with a curiosity on Draco's part. A nagging at the back of his mind. An experimental peek out into the Common Room one night, and the discovery that Hermione was there again. His heart had jolted and he'd all but slammed the door shut. He gave a backwards glance at the girl in his bed and chewed his inner cheek thoughtfully.

Truthfully, he had no idea why he'd stood there, barefoot in the center of the hardwood floor, tapping his toes anxiously. He had no idea why his eyes had flicked back and forth between the door and the blanket tossed thoughtlessly across his chair. He had no idea why he'd stood there and considered joining her. Again. For the second time.

But there he stood, tapping his toes, flicking his eyes, and considering.

"Bollocks," he'd said finally, snatching up the blanket and whipping the door open before he'd had time to second guess himself.

He'd told himself he couldn't sleep.

Hermione had looked up at him unsurprised.

They'd slept in silence.

They slept in silence near every night, actually. Even on the nights where Draco had to lie about the snoring girl in his bed.

Surely, she knew.

Surely Hermione had to guess that not _every _girl in Hogwarts snored. Not _every _night did he sleep with a different, snoring witch.

But he suspected, somehow, that Blaise didn't spend every single night snoring away in Hermione's bed, either.

Still, they met in the Common Room.

Once when he'd snuck out of bed she'd even moved her legs for him to sit beside her, not once looking up from her book. He'd taken the spot she offered, never one to deny a courtesy, and buried his nose into a book of his own.

Yes.

Once or twice they'd fallen asleep on the same couch.

Once, twice, or a few times more than either would like to admit.

It began with Draco on the far side, furthest from Hermione, both with books in front of their faces and legs draped casually off to opposite sides, no skin touching between the two of them.

It evolved gradually to Draco sleeping while sitting up straight in the center of the couch, Hermione to one side, head on the armrest and her legs crossed to avoid draping them across his lap.

Eventually, of course, she slept with them draped across his lap.

And, eventually, of course, after many nights testing the edges of imaginary boundaries, his arm found its way around her.

Still, they were silent.

Draco couldn't remember them ever speaking after the first night.

But here they slept, in the Common Room, him beside her, leaning against her shoulder with one arm loosely circling the back of the couch. Sometimes they slept with her legs in his lap. Sometimes they slept on opposite sides, heads on arm rests and legs separated by duvet. A few times he'd slept sitting straight up on the carpet, head leaned back against her torso as she lay quietly on the couch.

They'd slept in arm chairs dragged next to the fireplace.

On a mess of parchment before a Potions exam.

On two couches side by side.

They had no designated meeting time. Sometimes he was there first, and sometimes it was she.

And he'd never touched her.

Never even thought about it.

He'd peered at her with the lights out, her breathing slow and even, and admitted to himself that she looked rather inoffensive as she slept. He'd heard her chuckle quietly as she read by the light of her wand, and admitted that he didn't absolutely hate the sound. He'd met her with her hair wet and skin ruddy from a hot shower and caught himself thinking that she actually looked washed.

Clean.

Now when Draco had girls over, he flew them down to the grounds on his broomstick or snuck away while they were sleeping, returning before they awoke. He assumed there was a similar arrangement with Blaise, though he couldn't imagine Blaise minding even if he'd known.

It was a comfortable arrangement.

In the day time they attended lessons and didn't speak. At prefects' meetings, they maintained the grudging respect they'd established from the beginning of the year. They took their patrols in silence, returned home, split off into their respective bedrooms, and met again in the middle of the night.

Like a dream.

Draco tried not to think about it. Tried not to dwell too long (or at all) on the fact that he spent nearly every night sat chastely beside a Muggleborn witch when he had plenty of willing young ladies just ten feet away in his bed.

Sometimes he thought about what he would have said a year ago and he grinned. Sometimes he shuddered. Usually, he pushed the thought away before he could have any reaction to it at all.

But it was nice, escaping to her in the middle of the night.

A comfortable arrangement.

A secret.

If he was honest, Draco was relieved to finally be able to spend time with a woman in a blatantly nonsexual manner.

Even if that woman happened to be the best friend of his mortal enemy.

Even if she was a Gryffindor.

A know-it-all.

A Muggleborn witch.

He shook the thought out of his head impatiently, determined not to let it spoil the quiet adequacy of his life he'd found here on the couches of their shared Common Room.

Of course, it couldn't last.

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_**Next chapter: "The Finding Out"**_


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